


The Lonely Poet

by RedLipped



Series: His Love Makes Your Head Spin (Poet!AU) [1]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: M/M, Poet!Gavin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 05:26:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3966058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedLipped/pseuds/RedLipped
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His mouth is a paintbrush,<br/>detailing patterns along flushed skin.<br/>A lonely man lies beneath him,<br/>a poet,<br/>lyrically mumbling praise,<br/>until he is no longer lonely at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lonely Poet

**Author's Note:**

> this is easily the nicest thing i've ever written and i'm 1000% pleased with it  
> working with poetry has always been one of my strong suits
> 
> enjoy, friends <3

Holed up in a coffee shop on the north side of town, a thin boy dragged his fingers through his unkempt light brown hair. Irritated, he scratched at his scalp and glared down at a blank page. He sat at an old table in the far back corner of the room, alone by the window. The paint beside his head was peeling and the table in front of him was chipped and stained, overly worn from endless amounts of people coming and going with each passing hour. On the table lay a leather bound book and an uncapped pen, alongside a practically untouched mug of coffee.

Gavin's eyelashes fluttered as he ran his fingers along dents and chips in the table. He traced his fingernail across an old coffee stain, forming a perfect circle around the placeholder that identified a moment in someone else's life. Who had left this mark? How did they feel when they sat here? Were they happy? Were they even aware that they left a permanent stain or had they never returned to this table? Would they even recognize the stain as their own if they ever chose to come back?

His mind ran, but in all the wrong directions. His eyes flicked back to the uncapped pen and the blank page. Perhaps, he supposed, he could draw inspiration from this coffee stain. He could write about an imaginary person who left this mark in their tracks. However, as his own coffee gradually grew colder, he tossed the useless train of thought aside.

The background noise of others in the room was typically soothing, providing a type of white noise that he could simply block out; but Gavin found himself growing more frustrated as each voice in the room rose and fell in pitch, scratching at his eardrums. He felt a headache coming on.

He tugged at the sleeves on his cable knit sweater, pulling the fabric over his hands and shrinking into his clothing like a small child. The dimmed lighting in the back of the room made him unnoticeable to everyone else in the room. The closest person was 6 tables away from him and had their back turned. Yet Gavin still felt uncomfortable and irritated, wishing he could be hidden from sight entirely. He was a fan of looking into the windows of other people's lives without being directly involved. The last thing he wanted was for someone to notice him alone and try to speak to him. He shivered at the thought.

He ran his fingers through his hair again, messing it up even further than before. It was a nervous habit he had adapted, just like the frequency with which he licked his lips. With every passing minute, his tongue would dart out just long enough to wet his lips and disappear again. He also had a tendency to run his hand under his nose, always consciously aware of his one larger-than-average facial feature. Between messing up his hair, licking his lips, and touching his own face, he had enough nervous habits for three people combined. He grew more uncomfortable as he thought of all three. Suddenly his scalp itched.

With a frustrated and harsh exhale, he picked up his pen and balanced it between two fingers. After a moment of rolling the cheap plastic between his fingers, he let it fall to the table again. For a poet, he certainly felt like a useless one. He had been sitting for over an hour and at this point, even his coffee couldn't salvage a solid train of thought. He cursed his brain for generating distracting questions. He couldn't write about coffee stains and uncomfortable itches. He cringed at how horrible that prompt would develop.

He reached with both hands, still wrapped in the cozy knitted fabric of his sweater sleeves, for his coffee mug. The steam had long dissipated and as he drew the mug to his lips, he prepared for the worst. The sour taste of cold coffee splashed on his tongue and he placed the mug back on the table again, directly in the place of the old circular stain. He settled his hands back in his lap, but they fidgeted. He raised a hand again and pushed his mug slightly to the right, just outside of the coffee ring. That single mark belonged to someone else in history and it felt wrong to claim it as his own.

Gavin closed his eyes and bowed his head forward. He was past the point of desperate for a solid idea to build on, and the lack of coffee in his veins combined with the dim lighting in the room was making him feel drowsy. The craving for sleep began to spread through his bones and cloaked his mind in a heavy blanket. His sweater suddenly felt just too comfortable and he wrapped his arms around his own frame.

As he began to doze, a rattling laughter broke the background chatter in the room. Gavin lifted his heavy eyelids and searched the tables in the room for the source of his disturbance. Everyone seemed to be in order, some speaking in hushed voices for no reason other than social politeness, and others typing away on laptops or tablets. His eyes traced each person until they landed on a boy standing by the front counter. He was loudly chatting with the female cashier while he waited for his drink to be made. They seemed to be friends, or acquaintances at the very least. Gavin watched him with tired eyes.

The boy stood confidently and casually, his hands stuffed in his jean pockets. He had a green and grey beanie tugged down over what looked like a mess of russet curls. He was animated and hyper as he spoke, and Gavin found himself slightly concerned as to why this person was buying coffee.

“Michael!”

The boy turned his head in the direction of his name, stepping to the side to take his mug from the barista as it was handed toward him. He shifted the drink between hands and Gavin could see the steam rising from all the way across the room. The boy thanked both employees and walked gingerly toward an empty table, careful not to spill his coffee. He pulled out a chair, causing it to screech across the tiles and provoking everyone in his near vicinity to visibly cringe. He glanced around and uttered a bitter apology to no one in particular before sitting down. He was sitting straight enough to almost be facing Gavin from across the room, but on a very slight angle. Gavin wanted to count his eyelashes.

If it weren't for the fear of being discovered, Gavin would have continued to stare. The low lighting in the room hit the boy's curls beautifully. His cheeks darkened where they were naturally sculpted and hollowed out. His top lip was fuller than his bottom lip, round and soft as he brought his mug up to his mouth. He was a breath of fresh air in an otherwise boring room.

When he looked forward, vaguely in Gavin's direction, Gavin bowed his head so fast he felt a sharp pain spread in his neck. He faced the white page on the table in front of him and picked up his pen. He could write about this boy.

_A man walks into a bar,_  
_but it's not a bar, it's a coffee shop_  
_He asks for more caffeine,_  
_to top up the chemical_  
_already pulsing through his veins._

_A man walks into a coffee shop,_  
_Another man watches him_  
_with a sharp inhale -_  
_with a heavy exhale -_  
_with never-ending loneliness._

Gavin dragged a large black X through the page. He sounded horrible; he felt even worse. The tip of his pen tore dramatically through the paper and left marks on the page behind it. Useless. Directly underneath the mess he had rejected, he started again.

As he wrote each line, his eyes tended to leave his focus on the page and wander off toward the boy again. He watched him carefully and allowed his description of the boy to flow through the ink at his fingertips.

_A man walks into a coffee shop._  
_The light reflects his hair,_  
_bounces through his curls,_  
_and deepens his dimples._  
_With eyes the colour of his own drink,_  
_he observes the room,_  
_curiosity etched into his cheeks._

Again, Gavin scribbled through his writing. The ink on the page blended together until he felt like, if he tried hard enough, he could forget it had ever been written. There would always been the leftover markings across the page, but they could easily be ignored and tossed aside. Failures should never be counted, he reasoned to himself. He flipped to a new page.

_A man sits in a coffee shop,_  
_watching another across the room._  
_He craves touch, he craves familiarity,_  
_he craves the feeling of being pressed_  
_backward into a pillowcase,_  
_with a heavy weight balanced upon his chest._  
_He wants to utter the name of God,_  
_staring at the water stains in the ceiling,_  
_as he is undone_  
_cautiously,_  
_carefully._

Gavin sighed as tension began to flood his veins. Writing in public was always more soothing and ultimately beneficial than being alone at home. However, he was slowly beginning to understand the reality of how truly lonely he must be. He was staring rudely at a complete stranger with flushed cheeks, scribbling into a notebook about something for which he would never have an explanation. To any onlookers, he must look manic.

He glanced up at the attractive stranger once more, eyes drawn to him like a magnet. The object of his affection was staring straight back at him, squinting his eyes in a predatory glare. Gavin gulped and hurriedly looked down again. His face burned and he shrunk into his knitted sweater. He shut his eyes tightly, bracing himself for the moment that he saw coming from a mile away. Even with his eyes closed, he heard the unmistakable squeal of a chair being pushed away from a table. This time, no apology followed the noise. Footsteps resonated through the room, gradually sounding closer and closer until they stopped dead. Gavin felt the air shift around him, alerting him of the boy standing beside his table.

He opened his eyes and slowly trailed them up the body of the stranger who was still staring at him with squinted eyes. A crease formed in his freckled forehead as his eyebrows were drawn closer together. Gavin flushed a darker shade of red, feeling scrutinized and threatened by the intimidating eyes that swallowed him whole.

“Why are you staring at me?”

There it was. He couldn't say he didn't see it coming. He opened his mouth to speak, to explain, to say _anything_ , but sound refused to come out.

“Dude,” the boy spoke, “do I know you?”

Gavin wrapped his arms around his own chest, drawing himself in as small as he currently felt. He was bracing himself for a punch or a kick. If his history of accidentally fawning over straight males indicated anything, it was an entirely reasonable reaction.

“I-I'm sorry,” he stuttered.

The stranger shook his head. “It's no big deal, I'm fucking gorgeous.”

Gavin blinked in surprise over the boy's easy confidence. He watched as a grin cracked along the redhead's cheeks.

“I'm only joking, man. You just look terrified and I want to know why.”

Suddenly Gavin felt even more uncomfortable. He ran his fingers through his hair, licked his lips, and gently rubbed at his nose with the back of his hand. He was nervous.

The boy pulled out the chair across from Gavin, lifting generously to prevent that god awful screeching noise from happening for the third time. He sat at the table across from him and stared expectantly, determined for a response.

“I-I was just looking around, I wasn't staring, I promise.”

“Bullshit. Hey,” he added, “my name is Michael.” He extended his hand.

Gavin stared wide-eyed down at his hand and then back up to his face again. Michael looked friendly enough, he decided. He tugged his hands from their hiding place in his sleeves and shook hands with him.

“I'm Gavin.”

“Where are you from? You talk funny,” Michael asked. After a heartbeat, he added, “you talk different, I mean.”

Gavin nodded. “I'm from England. Oxfordshire, specifically. I moved to Austin a few years ago for work.”

Michael's eyes flickered down to the leather bound journal.

“Are you a writer?”

Gavin stuttered, “I- Kind of.”

Michael pursed his lips. Gavin shifted awkwardly in his chair.

“What are you writing?”

“It's nothing.” Gavin paled. “Just a useless attempt, nothing important.”

“I'm sure that's not true.” Michael lurched forward before Gavin could stop him. “Here, let me see.”

“No- please!”

Before he could react, his journal was pulled away from him and spun around to face Michael. Gavin shivered and chewed anxiously on his thumb nail. Another nervous habit, he predicted. In agonizing silence, he watched Michael's facial expression as he took in the words scribbled across the pages. He contemplated grabbing the book back and running from the establishment, but it was too late. Suddenly he wanted to cry.

The seconds dragged on until they felt like hours. Finally, Michael breathed deeply and pushed the book away from him, back toward Gavin, and leaned back in his chair. With a slight blush on his cheeks, he avoided eye contact and stared at the details in the floor tiles.

“A man walks into a bar,” Michael started, “he says 'ouch!' and walks away.”

Gavin spluttered at the unexpected joke, causing Michael to beam at him.

“You're good, Gavin. Poetic and shit. I like it,” Michael complimented.

Colour returned to Gavin's cheeks once again and he peered up at Michael through his eyelashes.

“Thank you, but I don't like any of it.”

“Well, I'm a complete stranger and you managed to describe details in me and convey your own loneliness in the same breath. That's impressive.”

Gavin wished with all his might that a never-ending black hole would open up from the ground and swallow him. He would prefer the unknowing feeling of free fall into nothingness over this mortifying conversation. But he was already falling, in a completely different way.

“I'm not lonely.” Gavin winced at his utter lack of confidence.

“No?” Michael's voice was challenging. Gavin scratched at his scalp.

“I can usually draw inspiration from different things, so I like writing in places like coffee shops.” He sighed. “But I haven't been productive here at all, and I've been sitting for an hour. Nothing works and my coffee has gone cold and I'm frustrated, not to mention embarrassed.”

Michael smiled softly at him. “In that case, let's get out of here.”

Gavin's head snapped up to stare at him, with his lips slightly parted. He was shocked at what he assumed the other boy was implying. Michael merely shrugged at the reaction.

“I just think that if this place isn't working for you, you shouldn't stay and try to force it.”

“I don't know, Michael,” Gavin whispered. Secretly, he did know.

“Why stay lonely when you don't need to be?”

Michael was right. Although it felt like a truly out-of-body experience, Gavin nodded, and he let himself be trailed by the hand out the front door of the coffee shop. Tucked under his arm was his journal and pen. Behind them, they left two practically untouched drinks to gradually grow cold on the old wooden table. The thought of the old coffee stain left Gavin's mind entirely.

Michael led them in the direction of his apartment and Gavin blindly followed, anticipation and desperation slowly eating at his brain. He was going home with a complete stranger, purely due to the ever-present emptiness in his soul. Along the way, Michael whistled and sang a song that was unfamiliar to Gavin, but he found comfort in the friendly noise regardless.

With bumping shoulders and the tight grasp of their entwined hands, they strolled down the sidewalk of the busy evening streets. Their walk was only short, barely ten minutes, if that. It ended once Michael rounded the corner toward an apartment building, through the main door, and led Gavin into open elevator doors. As soon as the doors closed, they were practically on top of each other, pressing kisses wherever they could reach. Gavin's eyes fluttered closed as lips attacked his jawline. The contrast of smooth skin against his light stubble made him weak in the knees.

Just like that, it was over before it began. The elevator dinged and the doors opened, and Michael peeled himself off of Gavin, leading him by the hand again down the hall until he stopped in front of his door. As Michael unlocked his apartment, Gavin found himself wondering when coffee shops became ideal places to find hook-ups. He winced at the reality that this was just going to be a hook-up; one night of enjoyment and pleasure and then loneliness would ultimately devour him once again. At least he could pretend, if only for a short while.

Michael pulled the door open, grabbed his hand, and pulled him directly through the apartment until they reached the open doorway to his bedroom. As Michael crossed the threshold, he spun around and pulled Gavin tightly into his chest, bumping their noses and pressing their lips together. He carefully tugged the journal from under Gavin's arm and placed it on the desk to his left. They remained intertwined in a mess of arms and limbs, moving backward until the backs of Gavin's knees hit the bed. He fell backward, landing gently against a soft, plush duvet. Michael climbed on top of him in a heartbeat.

The night played out exactly as Gavin had predicted in his earlier attempt at a poem, with him moaning the name of the boy above him as he was slowly taken apart by gentle, caring hands and talented lips. His gasps and moans echoed through the room, mimicked by Michael as they worked together to gradually come undone. Fingertips grasped tightly onto his hips and he nearly felt his heart leave his chest. Loneliness seeped out of his bones, replaced by the rush of adrenaline and the flood of attraction that pulsed through his veins.

Together they wrote a poem of their own, with intricate whispers and hushed moans, shivers down spines and warmth spreading in their cores. By the end of the night, Gavin was left wondering if maybe Michael had been lonely, too.

He could never have written something so beautiful.

  


When Gavin woke up the next morning, alone in a stranger's bed, anxiety drowned him. After a glorious night of moans beneath soft bed sheets, he was lonely again. He patted around on the bed, desperate for a note or some indication of where Michael had gone. He found nothing. He sighed and flopped into the pillow under his head and stared up at the ceiling, wetting his lips and tracing the outlines of old water stains with his eyes.

The door creaked open and Michael's smiling face appeared in the doorway. Clad in just a pair of boxers, he scrolled cautiously into the room, holding a mug in a steady hand. He sat on the edge of the bed, just by Gavin's hips, and held the mug toward him.

“I didn't know if you wanted tea or coffee,” he said through a thick morning voice, “I assumed tea because you're British, sorry.”

The corners of Gavin's eyes crinkled as his face split into a soft, appreciative smile. He sat up against the pillows and took the mug from his extended hands. He sipped at it gently, avoiding the burn of boiled liquid against his tongue. He recoiled, splashing the drink ever so slightly. He placed the mug on the bedside table beside him and leaned forward to rest his warmed hands against Michael's smooth, pale chest.

“Tea is lovely,” he grinned, “thank you.”

Michael wrapped an arm around Gavin, pulling him in toward his chest. He pressed a soft kiss to Gavin's forehead and released him again.

“I'm gonna go made a few phone calls, but I'm taking the day off today. I'd like to get to know you better.” Michael blushed. “I feel like the world's worst asshole for fucking you without even knowing your last name.”

Gavin giggled musically, echoing off of the plain white walls.

“Free.”

Michael furrowed his eyebrows. “Pardon?”

“Free. My last name; it's Free.”

Gavin watched as slowly, mechanically, a beautiful smile crept across Michael's freckled cheeks.

“Alright, Gavin Free. I'm Michael Jones.” He extended his hand.

“Is that a real name or a fake name?” Gavin cocked an eyebrow in suspicion. Nonetheless, he grabbed his hand to shake. Instead of letting go, he continued to hold on gently, letting their woven fingers fall together into his lap.

“I can assure you, it's my real name.”

Oddly enough, Gavin believed him. He nodded and pulled back reluctantly, leaning back against the pillows. Michael stood from the bed and turned to make his way toward the door. He paused suddenly and changed direction, walking toward the small desk in the room. He picked up the familiar leather bound journal and pen and tossed them onto the bed. They landed with a dull pat right beside Gavin's hands.

“Maybe you can pull some inspiration from last night to do some writing while I'm gone.” With a confident wink, he strolled back out of the room again.

Gavin blushed, now alone in the room. He smoothed his fingertips over the bumpy texture of his journal before opening up to a fresh page. He inhaled deeply, clearing his mind. Distantly, he heard Michael speaking on the phone in another room. Gavin picked up his pen and began to write.

_A man walks into a coffee shop,_  
_but it is not a coffee shop at all,_  
_it is the heart of another man._  
_He takes him home,_  
_he takes his heart,_  
_he takes his emptiness,_  
_and he takes his hands._  
_He presses his lips to_  
_every inch of a lonely man's body._  
_He matches_  
_every moan from a lonely man's mouth._  
_He is an artist,_  
_together they are a painter and a writer._  
_His mouth is a paintbrush,_  
_detailing patterns along flushed skin._  
_A lonely man lies beneath him,_  
_a poet,_  
_lyrically mumbling praise,_  
_until he is no longer lonely at all._

Resting on the bedside table, tea dripped down the side of a clean white mug. Beneath the bottom of the mug, a circular stain started to form. After a few minutes, the liquid had bled through and stained the wood, marking a perfect circle on the table. The stain in the bedroom of a stranger-turned-lover was finally one that Gavin could claim as his own.

 

**Author's Note:**

> poet!gavin is my fave so i might do more with this AU in the future!
> 
> feel free to chat with me on [tumblr](http://jacktapillo.tumblr.com/) :)


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